


Like They Should Be

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confessions of love, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, John Comes Home, Kind Of Sweet Really, M/M, Mary's Just John's Wife Not An Assassin, Pre-Series 3, Sherlock Being Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-09 13:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1984137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John accidentally reveals something to Mary. When she kicks him out, he returns to Baker Street. What will Sherlock's reaction be to the revelation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John's Return

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

John hauled his suitcase out of the back of the cab before paying the driver and watching him drive off. He turned to look at 221B across the street and suddenly wondered if Sherlock was even home. Hell, he hadn't even asked if he could move back in, and here he was with everything he owned on the door step. He sat on his suitcase across the street and fished out his phone.

_Sherlock? Are you home? -JW_

That seemed like an abrupt start, but he didn't know what else to say.

_Obviously not. SH_

Sherlock was home, but he was doing an experiment about lying so he had stopped telling anyone the truth. Except that _that_ was actually a lie. The only person he'd been lying to was John. They weren't big or important lies, just little things, perhaps to signal to John that Sherlock was doing just fine without him. That he wasn't missing his presence. Sherlock said he was out when he was in. He'd mention people's names -- by initial only, of course -- to give the impression that there were others in his life, people more important than John. These were lies. In fact he wasn't even doing an experiment about lying. Sherlock was lying to John and to himself.

_Oh. Maybe I can come by later? -JW_

John hated the thought of Sherlock coming home and seeing him sitting on the sidewalk so pathetically, but he had no where else to go. He didn't fancy dragging his case into a restaurant, and he didn't even know how long Sherlock would be.

_Where are you? SH_

_Honestly? -JW_

_Yes, please. SH_

Sherlock felt guilty which was a feeling he did not like.

_Outside. -JW_

_I'm home. Come inside. SH_

John looked up at the flat again and wondered why he had lied. But it didn't matter. John hauled up his bag and crossed the street, knocking loudly.

Sherlock stood at the window and watched John cross the street to the flat. He was carrying a suitcase. Intriguing. He looked lost. Worrying. John knocked on the door. Irritating. Sherlock knew that John no longer lived here. He didn't care. This was _their_ flat; John's actually living elsewhere was only a minor detail that Sherlock understood but didn't feel was particularly relevant. Why John felt it was necessary to remind him all the time, he did not know. The knock was a reminder. One does not need to knock at their own door. Sherlock pouted by refusing to acknowledge the knock. Sherlock always pouted by simply refusing to acknowledge.

John knocked a second time, and Mrs Hudson answered. She looked at his bag surprised but John feigned off her questions and headed for the stairs. He could hear her muttering as she walked away. Upstairs, John knocked again even though the door was open. "Sherlock?"

"Just come in, John," Sherlock answered, frustrated. One of his greatest gifts was his ability to be completely unbothered by his own childish behaviour. "Why do you insist on knocking? The door is literally open." He glanced at him and, despite his little outburst, Sherlock realised he was just so glad to see John.

"Habit," John mumbled, thrown off by his tone. He came in and brought his bag along, leaving it behind his chair before sitting down. "How are you?"

"I am well," he said, though he was not particularly well, just his usual self. He must stop lying. He smiled at John, like an apology of sorts. "And you? Are you going away somewhere?" he asked, nodding towards the case.

"I'm . . . fine, I suppose. That's actually . . ." John glanced towards his suitcase. "That's what I want to talk to you about," he said. He forced himself to meet Sherlock's gaze. "Do you think . . . would it be alright if I moved back in?"

There were close to a hundred and seventy-two questions Sherlock wanted to ask John. Instead, he said, "Yes." He stood up. "Shall we get a takeaway then?"

John was a bit thrown off by how casual he was being. "Um, sure," John nodded. He, of course, did not want to talk about what had happened, but this was very strange. He would go along with it for now and see what happened.

"Do you want to put your case in your room? It's . . . bothering me there." Sherlock felt that, somehow, as soon as the case was out of his line of sight, it would all be normal again. As if John had never left. That's how Sherlock wanted it to be. Like it was before she came along and changed everything. But Sherlock didn't want to think about all the changes. Or what else had changed to make John show up at Baker Street, asking to come home.

"I'll take it," John said, getting up and taking his bag again. "You didn't turn it into a lab?" He teased.

"Why would I change your room? It's _your_ room." Perhaps pretending everything was the same again wasn't going to be as easy as Sherlock had hoped.

"I know but -- I just thought after I left," John shrugged, pausing on the stairs.

"John," Sherlock said, "Stop talking about having left. You're back now. That's all that matters. This was our home before and then you . . . went away and now you're back and everything will be the same again. There was then and now there's now. What happened in between is irrelevant." Sherlock felt better having said it aloud. It's sorted: that's all that was needed, he thought, to make it so.

John nodded, unable to say anything and headed up to his room. Sherlock seemed angry. John knew that his leaving had bothered Sherlock, but they still spoke and John visited when he could. For some reason he felt guilty, and with that the whole reason for being here flooded into his head. There was no way to tell him now, especially after he said things would be the same now. John wondered how long he could live here and keep it buried.

Sherlock put on his coat, waiting for John. He wondered what Lestrade and Mycroft would say about John's return. It didn't matter. Mrs Hudson would understand. He hoped they'd see her on their way out, she'd smile at the two of them together again. Sherlock stood waiting for John, but he didn't hear any movement. He walked up to John's room and from the door saw John, who was facing away, lying on the bed. He wasn't rushing to follow Sherlock. He wasn't unpacking his things. He was just lying there. Things _weren't_ the same.

"John," Sherlock said.

John sat up when he heard Sherlock. "Hey, did you order dinner?" He asked, standing up off of the bed.

"Why have you come home?"

John cleared his throat and looked down. "Mary kicked me out," he said.

"I see," said Sherlock. "Do you want to tell me anymore?"

John shook his head. "I just . . . said something stupid," he shrugged. "I'd rather not talk about it." The thought of telling Sherlock what had happened made him almost sick with nerves. He'd surely think John was disgusting or something and how would he explain without admitting the whole truth? The reason his name had slipped out in the first place?

"I'm sorry for being selfish," Sherlock said. "I was just . . . thinking of my own needs. If you do want to talk, I am here. I've always been here." He slid off his coat. He didn't know quite what to do now. But this was John, his best friend, the one person who made him feel okay, safe, comfortable. The one person who made him feel. So he simply admitted, "I don't know what to do now. What should we do now, John?"

"We go back to normal, right?" John asked, watching him closely.

"I thought so," Sherlock said cautiously, "but now I don't know. You have things on your mind that weren't there before, you have a life that I'm not a part of. I suppose it was foolish to pretend those things don't matter. I just . . . I wanted it to be just us again, but maybe that time has passed." The thought made him sad.

"It will be just us," John said, stepping closer. "I don't want things to be weird. I just have to sort out what happened with Mary. I'm sorry if I'm acting strange," he said.

Sherlock smiled softly at John. "I understand. What happened with Mary? What do you need to do to sort it? Maybe I could help?"

John shook his head. "The thing I said to Mary . . . I'm sorting out what it really means and what I have to do about it."

"We all say things in anger, John," Sherlock said, doing his best to be supportive. "I'm sure she'll forgive you."

John shook his head. "It wasn't in anger. I can promise she won't forgive me, and it wouldn't matter if she did anyways," John shrugged. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and he was picking at his fingers for something to do.

Sherlock thought he'd figured it out. "So there's someone else involved then?" he said.

John merely nodded. He knew this was a dangerous path. He'd have to tell Sherlock the truth if they kept going but maybe he should. Wasn't that the fair thing to do after moving back in?

Sherlock tried to offer some comfort. Although he had never really cared for Mary, well, for Mary's role in John's life, he knew John had and therefore, as John's friend, he should be sympathetic. He awkwardly reached out and patted John's arm, saying, "Don't feel so responsible -- sometimes love just happens, I guess, people can't help it. What's meant to be will be, they say. If she loves someone else, there's probably little you can do to change that."

"No, Sherlock," John shook his head. How easy would it have been to just say yes? To say that Mary had met someone else? But that was a lie -- he'd started on this path willing and now he had to see it through. "I'm the one that loves someone else," he mumbled.

Sherlock stopped patting John's arm. He had _not_ expected that. In fact, for some reason, he felt incredibly hurt by it. Had he and John really grown so far apart that Sherlock hadn't even known there was someone else in John's life, someone in addition to Mary? Who? How? Why? Who?

This is exactly the reason Sherlock hadn't wanted John to leave in the first place. It was supposed to be Sherlock and John, Holmes and Watson -- not John and Mary and now John and someone else Sherlock didn't even know. Sherlock put his hands into his lap. He knew he shouldn't be making this all about him. John's marriage was ending -- even if he had someone else to love, that must be hard and Sherlock should be offering him support, not focusing on his own feelings. He said, "Well, I guess the same applies: there's probably nothing anyone can do to change that. Mary must know. You must know. I don't doubt it's awkward now, but in time Mary will accept things and move on and you and . . . your someone else can be together properly and you'll be happy again."

John was nowhere near as observant as Sherlock, but he would have had to be blind to miss the way his face dropped . . . the way his voice sounded when he spoke again. John moved and sat beside him on the bed, hesitated, and reached out for his hand. "This other person," he swallowed hard. "I called their name out in -- in bed. That's how she finally found out. It didn't help that -- that I couldn't shut up about them." He kept his eyes fixed on their hands, his face burning more and more as he spoke. 

Sherlock wanted to shout stop. Was this what their new friendship was about? Being tortured like this? Sherlock didn't want to know any more about this other person. He felt a rise of anger, of hatred, even though he couldn't totally understand why. For just a moment, he actually wished that John hadn't come back: he had hated his being gone but somehow this was worse, his coming back just to tell Sherlock his importance in John's life had fallen even further. Obviously John felt that confessing to Sherlock would benefit in some way, perhaps clear his guilt, but Sherlock could not bear much more. He stood up and moved away. "Yes, that sounds awkward. The whole thing . . . that must have been awkward for you and for Mary. Shouldn't you be talking to her now? This has nothing to do with me, John. I'm not sure I should be involved. Perhaps it'd be better if you went back and sorted it out between the three of you."

John let his hand move with Sherlock as long as it could before he was too far. John's hand dropped pathetically into his lap, and he looked down again. Sherlock was angry. Had he figured out it was him? There was nothing left now but to finally say it. "If the three of us are going to work it out then you'll have to come, too," he mumbled.

Sherlock froze. It was like all his energy went to his brain, processing, trying to make sense of what John had said. He thought he finally understood.

He didn't look at John. "I think I finally understand," he said, the words escaping into the air of the room. "What do you want me to do? Is that why you came back -- to get me to go speak to Mary, to explain it away for you, like it's just a habit you'll grow out of in time? Reassure her that it doesn't matter, that it doesn't mean anything? Is that what you want me to do?"

John flushed darker and his stomach dropped. Didn't Sherlock understand what that meant? Did he just not care? He probably didn't feel the same way and now John had ruined even their friendship. He was trying to push John back to Mary. John stood up and started pacing. Everything had to come out. It had to all be said and then he would go, and he wouldn't bother Sherlock any more. 

"Sherlock . . . I'm sorry. Look, after you left I was . . . a mess. You know that, of course because we've talked about it. But the reason -- I mean, you just don't get that worked up over a friend. I was already seeing Mary when I realised how I felt about you, but you were gone and there was nothing to do but push the feelings aside. I needed to get back to normal -- to try and move on. And then . . ." John paused here as the happiness of the memory flooded through him. His voice got quieter. "Then you came home and . . . everything I tried to push away just flooded up and overwhelmed me. I couldn't stop talking about you. I could see Mary was annoyed. I talked about cases we went on, the clever things you always said, I just wouldn't shut up. And then it got worse. I started thinking about you all the time, pretending I was back home, making up wild scenarios that would end with us living together again. And it kept getting worse. I started . . ." John paused for a long time here. " . . . I started fantasising about you and then I had to think about you just to get through it with her and I was always so careful until . . . until I wasn't." John grabbed his bag and moved towards the door. "I'll -- I'll go now. I'm sorry, Sherlock." He turned and started down the stairs, his heart sitting very heavy in his chest. 

Sherlock followed John. He reached out for his arm, turning him on the stairs so they were facing each other. "So I, it, it does matter . . . to you? Is that what you are saying? Is that why you really came home?" He looked down at John's face.

"I was a mess, Sherlock, because I love you," John said, fixing his eyes on Sherlock's. 

"And now? Do you still?" Sherlock did not look away.

"I didn't say 'loved,' Sherlock," John said. 

"I think we should go back up to your room to talk about this," Sherlock said.

John's eyes moved several times to Sherlock's before he nodded. "Okay," he nodded. 

Sherlock led them both to John's room. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed -- where there was room if John wanted to sit. Sherlock was smiling.

John put his bag down by the door and moved to sit next to Sherlock. He wrung his fingers, unsure of what to say next. That had all happened so quickly he didn't have a chance to be nervous. But now it all came on him at once. Everything he told Sherlock swam in his head. 

"I suppose it never crossed you mind to share these things earlier?" he asked. "Maybe before you told her . . . you could have told me?" He was still smiling.

John shrugged. "I was . . . sorting it out, I guess."

"Some things are easier to sort out on your own, I suppose," Sherlock said quietly. "And other things benefit from sharing."

John glanced over. "I didn't know what to say -- how to tell you."

"And you thought long and hard and decided the best route to announce it would be calling out my name whilst you two were together?" Sherlock reached over to touch John's hand. Now he was smiling at John. "You should have told me, you should have shared, John," he said softly, "I thought that's what made us good. We shared."

John tensed lightly, but he turned his hand to hold onto Sherlock's. "I didn't mean to, Sherlock. It just slipped out in the moment," he flushed. "I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't know how you'd take it . . ."

"You know me well enough to feel love for me but not well enough to know how I'd respond to your telling me you do?"

"You can love someone and still fear they won't feel the same way," John admitted. 

"True enough," Sherlock agreed. "Especially if the other person is not clearly communicating how they feel."

John nodded, glancing over at him. "Care to explain? I can handle whatever it is," John said, trying to prepare himself for whatever he said. 

"I'm just saying it would be sending quite confusing signals if, say, a person went to pieces when you left, indicating perhaps a strong emotional bond, but then once you returned, they, I don't know, married someone else." Sherlock let it hang for a minute. "Yes, I imagine that would let some doubt in. Much better to clearly communicate, don't you think?" Sherlock wasn't trying to be cruel to John. But sometimes he felt that his acknowledged weaknesses when it came to the emotional arena allowed others, including John, to ignore their own inconsistencies or shortcomings.

John flushed and looked down. "Look, Sherlock, not only did I think you were dead, but there was nothing expressly tying me to you except friendship," he said. "Yes, I started seeing Mary, but not until at least a year and a half after you left. And she had her work cut out for her, what with my weekly grave visits, nightmares, delusions that you were out there somewhere . . . she helped give the impression that I was moving on, that people didn't need to whisper about me or worry about me. When I was alone with my thoughts of you, I was consumed by guilt that I hadn't told you sooner, that I hadn't known sooner, that you had left this world without knowing that someone loved you." John took a break and shrugged. "She found me on the roof, you know, and she convinced me to go inside with her," he said quietly.

Sherlock hadn't known these things. Not the details, not the extremes. He felt horrible; even though he had had his reasons and John now knew and seemed to understand, he still felt so horrible. At the same time, he wondered when was the last time John had been in contact with Lestrade or with Mycroft, what they might have told him about Sherlock's behaviour since John had moved out. When Sherlock was gone, he too had had a lot of time by himself to think and he too had been consumed by guilt for not having told John his feelings. Yet, his opportunity to share with John had been stolen as well -- not by a fall but by a wedding.

"We are quite a pair," Sherlock finally said, reaching over to rest his hand on John's knee. "Perhaps we deserve each other after all. It was good of Mary to take care of you when I couldn't . . . she doesn't deserve to have been brought into the mess we made of ourselves."

John nodded. "Had I known that you were coming back, I would have never let it get so far. It's not fair to her that I strung her along this long, and even more that I lied to her." 

"Perhaps lie is too harsh of a word, John. Lies imply a cruel intention," Sherlock said. "But, yes, we weren't very kind to her really. At least it can get no worse for her now that she knows the truth." Sherlock saw Mary in a different light and felt a sort of compassion for her that he hadn't before. After all, the only thing she had done was love John.

"I suppose," John nodded. "Oh, Sherlock . . . if you had seen her face when I said it," John sighed heavily. 

"Stop thinking about that, it happened. If you want someone to confirm that it was a terrible thing to have done, well, even I can tell you that. But continually beating yourself up won't change the fact that it happened. Think instead of what to do to make it right from now on. I am far from an expert in these matters, but I would say it probably involves being gentle and truthful and allowing her to do, say and feel whatever she needs to do, say or feel. Once she's done so, she will be able to move on and so can you."

"She's never going to talk to me again, Sherlock. And I don't want her. I'm in love with you," John said, looking over at him. "I'm not going back to her," he said.

"Obviously you're not going back to her. But you still have to make things right. Because that's what a good man would do," said Sherlock, surprised by his own defense of Mary. "And you are a good man, John."

"How? How do I possibly make this right?" John asked.

"If she's just asked you to leave today, you should give her time. Send her one text saying 'I'm sorry" but leave it at that. Write her a letter and be totally honest. She will let you know what to do next. It may be that she never wants to speak to you again. Or it may not be. She gets to decide," Sherlock's voice was matter-of-fact as if he had devoted years of his life to helping the heartbroken. "And, in the future, be more honest -- with yourself and others. And don't . . . wait until it's too late to do so."

 _Too late to do so_. The words circled in John's head and he couldn't think for a second. "I . . . right," John nodded. "I think I want to lay down for a bit, think about what to tell her," he mumbled, getting up and moving to his bag for something to do.

"John, may I suggest something else instead?" Sherlock said softly. "Perhaps what you need is a break from thinking. Just for the rest of the night. You can think again tomorrow."

John gripped his bag for a second before shaking his head, lifting the bag and bringing to the bed. "No, I -- I should really try and do something about this," he said quietly. He unzipped the bag and moved some things around, pretending to look for something. 

"John, stop," Sherlock said, "Please."

John stilled his hands but remained looking down, his eyes fixed on the rumpled clothes.

"Let's just . . ." Sherlock knew that this was big, he knew he couldn't erase John's anxiety. But he just wanted to ease it, somehow, ". . . have a cup of tea."


	2. Sherlock's Admission

"You should probably stay out of the kitchen tonight, I was not expecting company," Sherlock said. "I'll make it. Come downstairs." Sherlock hurried to the kitchen. While the kettle boiled, he rinsed two mugs and retrieved the milk from the fridge, making sure to not allow the door to fully open to reveal the fact that it was empty of food. He set the tea on the arm of John's chair and sat on the sofa across from him. He took a quick sip of tea and then said, "So you are certain you are in love with me," partly a question, partly a statement.

"I thought I was no longer thinking about it tonight?" John mused, sipping at his tea.

"I meant about the upsetting things, about Mary," Sherlock said. "Besides, I am not asking you to think. Just to answer. If you want." He took another sip of tea.

"Yes," John answered, drinking more tea.

"I see," said Sherlock. "And you are worried that if I do not feel the same, our friendship will change. If I do feel the same, will our friendship not also change?"

"It's going to change either way, of course," John said. "I'd just prefer a certain change," he added quietly.

"You mean, being able to move back into the flat?" Sherlock had a pretty good idea that that was not what John was referring to, but for some reason, he felt like doing this little dance with him. Perhaps it was to break the unpleasant tension of the conversation about Mary by introducing a new, more pleasant kind of tension between them. Sherlock watched John. "You clearly have thought much already about this. Stop thinking now and just explain. What specific change are you hoping for?"

John looked up now and met his gaze. He knew what John meant, that much was obvious. He sighed in defeat and spoke simply. "I want you to love me back."

Sherlock decided to be uncharacteristically straight forward. "My concern, John, is that I have been loving you back for quite some time, and your apparent unawareness of this fact makes me feel that perhaps the way I do it is insufficient for you." This time it was Sherlock who broke the gaze.

"You -- what?" John asked, sitting up a bit straighter.

"It probably started immediately -- saving a man's life is a pretty impressive way to win his heart -- but obviously it took me a little while to deduce what was happening, this not being my area of expertise. You know why I had to do what I did: as horrible as it was for everyone involved, his whole plan was designed around the people I cared most about; he knew. I had to go away. For so long . . .you said you were a mess and had little to do except think of what you should have said. What do you think I spent my time doing? Then when I returned, my chance was gone . . . " he let his voice trail, ". . . and since then, I have not been well, you could say. All the time I have tried to show you, every decision no matter how hard -- leaving, returning, leaving you to her -- they've all been motivated by love. Yet here you are, completely unaware. I don't think I am very good at this."

If Sherlock had been next to him, John would have slammed their mouths together, a hard kiss of happiness. But he was across the room and the conversation didn't really warrant something so dramatic. John got up and moved to sit beside him. He reached out for his hand again. "Maybe I knew," John nodded. "But I was an idiot and I ignored the clues," he admitted.

"Quite frankly, I'm not sure if that's better or worse to know," Sherlock said sadly, but he did not pull his hand from John's. He sat quietly for a minute before quietly asking, "Have you any recommendations for how I, we, could be a bit better at this?"

"Properly communicating, for starters," John said. "And the only reason I pushed them away is because I still thought I wasn't gay," he added.

Sherlock laughed. "Yes, well, perhaps you could share the story of your obsession with not being gay at a later date. Unless you think that will continue to be an issue for you? I'm not sure I'm particularly interested in hiding what's going on nor am I keen to join every single pride parade on the calendar. With regards to properly communicating, is the 'gay thing' something we need to discuss?" He was smiling, but serious. "Be honest."

John bit his lip. "I'm nervous, I mean, of course I am because it's new and different and -- " he stopped and took a deep breath. "I want it, with you, I know that much."

"And when you say 'it' you mean . . .?" Sherlock said, cheekily.

John shoved his arm. "I mean a relationship, you arse," he smiled.

Sherlock assumed (and hoped) that, given John's use of the word fantasised earlier and the whole calling his name out in bed business, the other 'it' would probably be on the table at some point, though that might need less talking and more just doing. "Fine then," Sherlock said. "Should we just get started with it then? I mean the relationship. Have we started it, does something official need to occur or what?" He was still smiling. They were still holding hands.

"If you want to officially state it, I suppose. We can . . . seal it," John smiled.

"Hmmm," Sherlock said. "I don't know. Perhaps I don't want it to officially start just yet." He looked at his watch. "Yes, now that I think about it, I'm quite busy at the moment. I was working earlier, you know. You just waltz in, insist on a relationship starting and I have to drop everything unexpectedly? I do worry we're going to end up in couples counselling sooner rather than later, my dear." Sherlock stood up and looked at his watch again. "I think I will be ready to officially start this relationship in forty five minutes. This will allow me time to bid adieu to my bachelor lifestyle and you time to unpack and get settled. We meet again at 8.45, okay?"

"Sherlock!" John whined, flopping back on the couch dramatically.

"Fine," Sherlock said. "You can waste your last hour of freedom pouting on the sofa if you'd like, but I've got things to do." He turned and disappeared into his room. He made his bed and opened one of the windows slightly to let in some fresh air. He set out a change of clothes and made his way to the shower.

John sighed and climbed up to his room, unpacking his bag.

After his shower, Sherlock peeked in to see if John had gone to his room. He snuck down to the kitchen and tried to tidy up as much as possible. He looked at his watch: 8.40. He went upstairs to his room. He sat down and waited for John.

John was laying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and waiting. He had no idea how long it had been. He couldn't hear anything.

At precisely 8.45 Sherlock called out for John. He shouted, "John, it's time. Come to my room, please."

John sat up and looked towards the sound of his voice. He stood up, sat down, stood up again and then paced back and forth. This was it. All of his nerve was gone, and his stomach rolled violently.

Sherlock kind of regretted shouting so instead he got up and went to John's door. John was standing there awkwardly. "Come on, John," he said softly, holding out his hand. "It's just me, Sherlock. Let's go to my room."

John froze when he saw Sherlock, nodding. He reached out slowly and took his hand, following him down the stairs. "Sorry," he mumbled.

"It's okay," Sherlock said as he led John back to his room. "But remember, you've been in here before. Lots of times." He led John to the edge of the bed where he sat down, and Sherlock sat beside him.

"Here's the thing, John. Here's how we're going to begin our relationship. We're going to go back to how we were before. That's what we both loved, right? Let's not try to act like 'something,' try to be a certain way. It was good how it was before all the bad stuff. I know we can't forget everything that's gone on but we're still here, we still feel the same. Let's be like we were because we were very good."

Sherlock stood up and went to his desk. "That's not to say I'm not open to something different. I am. Good differences, obviously. Here is something I hope you'll see as a good difference." He reached into his desk and lifted out a box. He walked over and sat down next to John. He opened the box, which was full of small stones. "Every case we've ever been on, I've picked up two stones as reminders -- one for you and one for me. From the first night at the college, from the tunnel, Dartmoor, even . . . St Bart's. They helped me remember the things we did together, to remember us. Pick one and keep it in your pocket. That way you'll know I'll always be there." Sherlock couldn't tell if he should be embarrassed by the obvious show of sentiment, but it was all the truth.

John nodded along as Sherlock spoke, agreeing with everything he was saying. When he pulled out the box he furrowed his brows, tilting his head at the random looking stones. Then Sherlock explained. "Oh," John breathed, "Oh, Sherlock." John shook his head. He didn't know what to say. He looked up at Sherlock, unable to move, unable to speak.

"Yes, John, it's me, Sherlock," Sherlock said. "You know me, you know all the good and you know the bad. You know me and I know you and we've already done this before really, just never acknowledged it. So don't feel afraid, okay?" Sherlock bent down and gave John a tender kiss on the mouth and then stepped away again, smiling.

In his daze, John reached out and took a stone, putting into his pocket, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "I love you, Sherlock. So much . . . and I feel so stupid for not seeing before," he said.

"I love you, too, John," Sherlock said, smiling. "Even though you were stupid for not seeing it before."

"Shut up," John mumbled, smiling up at him.

"It was your judgment, I'm only confirming it," Sherlock laughed. "So everything's good now? We're okay, normal? We can be as we were, which we're familiar and comfortable with . . . at least until something actually new is introduced."

John nodded. "Yes, we can be like before," he said.

"And perhaps we will add to what we were, at some point, when you're sure you actually want to?" Sherlock said, sitting next to John on the bed. "Fantasising is one thing, doing is another, of course."

John nodded. He did want to, just slowly. "Okay," he said.

Sherlock eyed him. "Okay one day we will or okay you're sure you actually want to?"

"I know that I want to," John nodded.

Sherlock nodded. He also wanted to. "Okay," he said.

John glanced over. "Um, do you want to go to dinner first or . . ." he trailed off and flushed dark, the request sounding ridiculous.

Sherlock nudged John with his arm. "Are you asking to be my date for dinner? Oh my, things have changed, haven't they?" he laughed. Then he looked over at John and said, "This time there is no schedule. The question isn't 'Do you want to get dinner first' and then it happens. The question is 'Are you hungry?' If the answer is yes, we'll get dinner. If the answer is no, we won't. One of us will kiss the other when he feels like kissing the other, not according to some plan. All right?"

John shoved his shoulder lightly and smiled. "Are you hungry?" he asked quietly.

"I am rarely hungry," Sherlock said. "Being in a couple is unlikely to change that. However, if you are, let's go get something and you can try to bully me into eating."

John shook his head. "I'm not hungry, Sherlock," he said. "I'm. . . . nervously stalling," he admitted. 

"Not allowed, Dr Watson," Sherlock said. "Because that's not you -- you don't stall, you act." He stood up. "Get up, we're going for a walk then. When we return, we'll get into my bed and I will kiss you properly. Or perhaps it will happen on its own before then. Do _not_ spend the rest of the night obsessively worrying. Just be John Watson," he said, heading down the stairs.


	3. Same But Different

John watched him go and couldn't help grinning. He was right, of course. He never stalled with women. He loved Sherlock, wanted to be with him, and Sherlock wanted him too so what was he nervous about? He got up and followed Sherlock down, shrugging on his coat. 

As they walked, Sherlock told John about the few cases he had been able to work on since John had left. Sherlock asked a few questions about John's life, but tried to be delicate -- not out of disinterest but in the hopes of doing his best to avoid the Mary issue. Sherlock asked about Harry. John asked about Lestrade. When they returned to the flat, they passed Mrs Hudson on the way in who greeted them as she had always done and to whom they responded as they had always done. They were like they had been before.

Once upstairs, John hung his coat and turned to look at Sherlock. He bit his lip lightly and reached out, tugging on his shirt to bring him closer.

This was the John Watson Sherlock remembered. And loved. He moved closer to John, slipping his arms around him. He leaned in and gently kissed John on the lips and then pressed his cheek to John's.

John let his eyes slip closed but it was over so quickly. "All of this build up and that's all you'll give me?" he teased softly. Both hands were settled on Sherlock's waist.

Sherlock leaned in again, this time pressing his mouth harder against John's. It was a different kind of kiss. He parted his lips, letting his tongue beg entrance. His hands had moved up John's back, pressing into the muscles, before he pulled them away and up. He held John's face, tipping John's head, and moved his mouth more hungrily on John's.

John gasped softly as his lips parted for Sherlock, matching his ferocity. He gripped his sides harder and pulled him closer, sliding them up to his chest. When he broke away for some air he was panting lightly. "That's . . . yes," he breathed, smiling softly.

Sherlock said, "Let's go lie down," and pulled John into his bedroom. They sat on the bed and Sherlock once again lifted his hands to John's face and they kissed. John's mouth felt less tentative, his body's response more relaxed, so Sherlock leaned into him to push them both back onto the bed. Sherlock kept focused on the kiss, but the feeling of his weight pressing into John's body did not go unnoticed.

John nodded and followed him into the room, glad when they started up again. He hummed softly and let Sherlock push him down, pulling his shirt out of his trousers and slipping his hands inside.

The feeling of John's skin against Sherlock's skin was delicious. A part of him wanted to rip off both of their clothes. Yet, he wanted to go slow for John, to give John every opportunity to decide when and how and how far. It seemed strange in a way that Sherlock was the less certain one in these matters when John was clearly the more experienced. Regardless, Sherlock was happy not to rush, to read John's body and respond to it; after all, there was no reason to hurry.

John slipped his hands out and started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. How many times had he pictured this moment? It had played out so many different ways. He was eager to see how this would finally happen. He peeled Sherlock's shirt from his shoulders so that it pooled at his elbows.

The air of the bedroom seemed cool against Sherlock's bare skin. He released his hold on John and pulled his shirt completely off. He lifted John's jumper over his head but left John's shirt untouched. He looked at John's face -- so eager and honest -- and kissed him once again, sliding his hand into John's hair and holding his head gently. Sherlock nipped softly at John's lips before his tongue reached in once more to find John's.

When the jumper cleared his face John gazed up at Sherlock, marveling at how simply gorgeous he was. That, at least, he had always known, surprised at first that he didn't have hundreds of girls fawning over him. But now he was glad for the fact: despite the crazy road they had taken to get to this point, Sherlock was his now. John pushed his tongue forward and slid it along Sherlock's, moaning softly and running his hands slowly up and down Sherlock's sides. 

Sherlock felt guilty that he recognised John's sounds. When John had lived here before, Sherlock would occasionally hear those sounds coming from his bedroom when John had gone up before him. He had just sat on the sofa, listening, imagining what John was doing to elicit those noises. Now it was Sherlock's doing. Sherlock moved to John's neck, licking and sucking the salty skin. He let one hand slip to caress John's ear, before moving his mouth to John's other ear where he licked the curve of John's lobe before softly biting the skin.

Sherlock's mouth felt wonderful -- hot and wet -- and John moaned louder. "Sherlock," he breathed, moving his hands to Sherlock's back. 

Hearing his name now escaping from John's lips in this way only built the feeling of urgency within Sherlock. Cautiously, but somewhat desperately, Sherlock whispered, "Let's take off our clothes. We can get in the bed if you'd prefer."

John nodded, gripping his shoulder blades tightly. "Okay," he said, sliding his hands all the way down his torso and to the button of his trousers. 

Sherlock let John undo his trousers and then helped him pull the rest of his clothes off so that Sherlock was completely naked before John. He reached over and began removing John's clothes. This was a milestone, Sherlock knew. So far the kissing, well, it probably wasn't all that different from what John had done before, with women. But now the two of them with no clothes, there'd be no way to deny they were two men in intimate circumstances. Sherlock tried to smile at John, encouragingly was what he was aiming for, but he also said, "We can stop at any time, John."

John's eyes roamed over Sherlock's body, flushing lightly as he stared so intently. When Sherlock spoke his eyes met Sherlock's and he shook his head. "I know, Sherlock," he assured him. 

"Are you cold? Should we get under the covers?" Sherlock said, pulling down the duvet, "Let's do, actually." It wasn't the temperature that made Sherlock want to get in; he suddenly realised how lovely it would be to be in bed with John, safe and comfortable, like home. He wanted to see John's body on his sheets, John's head on his pillow.

John lay down on his side, pulled the covers up and turned to look at Sherlock. He couldn't stop smiling. 

"I'm happy," Sherlock said. It was a sentence he rarely thought, let alone said aloud. He leaned down towards John and scooped his arms around him. He pulled John to him, and their naked bodies touched, their legs entwined naturally, as if they had done so a million times. Sherlock nuzzled into John's neck, kissing it again.

John moaned softly, his fingers closing lightly against Sherlock's chest. "I'm happy, too, Sherlock," he murmured. 

Sherlock slid one hand down the length of John's body and rested it on his hip. He drew a circle with his fingers as he continued to kiss John's mouth. He let his hand move slightly down John's leg, his fingers curling round John's inner thigh. He lifted his mouth to John's ear and asked, "Can I touch you?"

John loved the slow and sensual kissing -- as if it was allowing him to taste Sherlock so much better then a frenzied attack of passion. His skin burned everywhere that Sherlock touched it, and his breathing was getting slightly heavier. "Yes please," he whispered. 

Sherlock ran his fingers across John's pelvis. His touch was light. He moved slowly to John's cock, at first brushing just the tip of his index finger against the skin, before curling his hand around and holding it. He kissed John's mouth again as he began a slow stroke.

John was twitching at the light touches, gasping softly when Sherlock properly held him. He was kissing back a bit more sloppily now, trying not to buck into his hand, wanting to enjoy the moment fully like the slow kissing.

"Stay with me, John," Sherlock whispered, "Don't anticipate, just enjoy. We have plenty of time." He kept stroking John slowly with an even rhythm. His own cock stiffened against John's hip bone, and the pressure felt good. He began mimicking the movement of his hand with his tongue on John's neck, slowly licking up and then dragging his mouth back down.

John swallowed back a moan and nodded. "It's just . . . so good," he breathed.

"It is, John," Sherlock said. "We've waited a long time and now it's happening. And that is very good." Sherlock shifted his position so he could lick down John's collarbone to his chest. He kissed and sucked at one of John's nipples before moving to the other one. He kept slowly stroking.

"Too long," John said as Sherlock moved around. John moaned loudly, arching into his mouth, his hands fisting up the sheet. He made sure to keep his hips firmly planted on the bed.

Sherlock slid over so he was now lying next to John. He used the arm still around John to turn him so they were face-to-face. Sherlock kissed John's mouth again as he pressed his body against John's. His hand stopped moving and reached for his own cock, holding it against John's. He slowly began rocking his hips, his hand helping their cocks rub against each other.

John moaned into the kiss, reaching down to touch the two of them together. Four fingers on Sherlock, his thumb on his own, and he gently moved up and down as Sherlock thrust against him.

For a moment Sherlock pulled away from the kiss. He let his head fall slightly back, let his thoughts stop. Everything was in that touch, that connection. He found it almost difficult to breath. He got lost, he loved it, he wanted to stay in it. He dipped his head forward into John's chest, his arm around John holding his shoulder for support.

John turned his head to bury it in his hair, stroking just a bit harder.

Sherlock's need suddenly felt dangerously urgent. "John, I'm . . . going to . . . I'm close," he struggled to get the words out.

"Do you want . . . to finish here?" John murmured, slowing down a bit.

Sherlock tried to regain control. "I don't know," he said breathlessly. "No, it's just . . . " Without really wanting to, he had pulled away his hand and tried to move away from John's. "Stop . . . for a minute." He tried to catch his breath. "I'm sorry," he mumbled, his face pressed into John's chest.

"It's okay," John breathed, trying to catch his own breath. He kept away from Sherlock's cock, knowing that if he was as sensitive and as close as John was the slightest touch could be the end. 

Sherlock apologised again. He stretched his body a bit and turned to lie flat on the bed. His breath was becoming more regular. "John," he said, "we are naked in bed together."

"I know," John said. He couldn't help grinning. "It'd be difficult to give a good hand job with pants on."

Sherlock laughed and then turned to look at John. He felt quite shy all of a sudden. "Was it . . . good? As good as in your fantasy?"

"Very much better, actually," John smiled, turning to face him as well.

"Thank you," Sherlock said. He leaned over to kiss John. It was so normal, so natural, he couldn't believe he hadn't been doing it everyday since they had met.

John smiled and kissed him back, very glad that the awkwardness was gone already. 

Sherlock gently pushed John back flat onto the bed again and climbed on top of him. His legs straddled John's chest, but he kept his thigh muscles tight, so his body hovered above the doctor's. Sherlock looked down at John's face. "What should we do now?" he asked.

"You're very close to my mouth," John murmured, his breath ghosting on Sherlock's cock.

"So I am," Sherlock said. "Very observant of you."

John lifted his head and flicked his tongue over the tip, licking up the precome. He wrinkled his nose lightly at the taste, but it wasn't as bad as he'd imagined. He flicked his tongue over the tip again and sucked in the head. 

Sherlock let out a long breath at the feel of John's mouth. His thighs began to shake and he had to lower one arm on to the bed next to steady himself. His other hand slipped into John's hair, which he tangled in his fingers. "That feels good, John," he purred.

"Yeah?" John breathed, moving his head forward to take in more. 

"That's why it's not so strange to do," Sherlock said, closing his eyes. "It's just about making the other person feel nice. That's all this is, John, your making me feel nice."

John pulled off again. "I'm glad," he smiled. He propped himself on his elbows and sucked in more, bobbing his head now. 

Sherlock stopped talking. John seemed comfortable and his mouth was making Sherlock feel very comfortable, so he relaxed. His hips shifted slightly but not to push in, just to match John's rhythm. He tried to sit back up again and looked down, watching John sucking him.

John looked up at him through his lashes, humming softly around Sherlock. 

This time Sherlock more sensibly realised when the building up inside him was rising too much. He slowly moved back, pulling out of John's mouth. He slid his body lower and leaned down to kiss John's lips. Then he kept moving lower until his mouth was even with John's cock. He held it with one hand and began licking it. Slowly up one side, tongue flicks over the top, and a lick down the other. He listened for John's reactions.

John lay flat again, panting softly, He bit his lip as Sherlock kissed along his body, arching up into him. "Oh," John breathed, fingers burying into his hair. 

Sherlock took John full into his mouth now, swirling his tongue as he sucked in. He moved up and down the shaft as his other hand reached down to cup John's balls.

John whimpered softly, his other hand fisting up the bedsheet again. 

Sherlock closed his eyes for a minute, lost himself in what he was doing. How long he had waited to know John this way, to be with John this way. He felt John's hands in his hair. He had imagined that feeling many times, alone at night, after John had gone and he was desperate to feel some connection again. He would lie on the sofa and imagine John touching him, kissing him. John's hands in his hair. And now it was real. John's body was rocking the both of them on Sherlock's bed.

"Sherlock . . . c-close," John moaned. "I'm close."

Sherlock stopped and hummed, "I don't want to stop. But I will if you want me to."

"You stopped me," John said, propping up to look at him better. "Are we doing more?" he asked quietly. 

"Remember, John, there's no plan, no agenda. If you want to do more, we can do more. But neither of us is going away again, right?" he said, flicking his tongue quickly over John's tip once more, "So there's _always_ going to be more."

John nodded. "I just can't wait much longer, but if I have to hold on I can work on that," he smiled.

Sherlock smiled and nuzzled John's cock once more. "So do I stop or not? If you want something else, just say."

"Ah -- I do want more," he breathed. 

"John Watson," Sherlock said, moving his body to the side of the bed, "you are a man of surprises this evening." Sherlock reached over and turned off the lamp so the room was darker. He could still see John, but it seemed a little safer somehow. He lay alongside John, propping himself on his elbow while his other hand drifted back to John's cock, which he held and occasionally stroked, partly to keep John excited and partly to distract him John from overthinking.

"Does the more you want involve my being inside you?" he said quietly.

John flushed. "That's what I pictured most of the time," he admitted. "I know thinking about it's different than actually doing it but . . .I love you. I want to share this with you," he nodded. 

Sherlock smiled sweetly at John. "Yes, this is much better. Telling, sharing. This is what we used to be like." He reached over and took a small bottle from the bedside table. He poured some out into his hands. "This just makes things easier," he said, "but no matter what, you must keep telling, keep sharing -- if you want to stop, you must say. I love you and I don't want to ever do something you don't want. It won't mean anything: it won't mean you don't love me or that you're scared or that we have a problem. All it will mean is that I will stop doing whatever I'm doing at that moment in time. Do you promise me that, John?"

"I promise," John nodded. He pictured it all on his head again and it seemed so easy. He hoped the real thing would go as smooth. He had tried fingering himself before and it wasn't _that_ bad. Sherlock was pretty big though, but he tried not to think about that. 

John's face had gone a little dreamy and Sherlock guessed what he was thinking of. "Are you imagining it now, as you have before?"

John nodded, looking over at him. "I am," he said.

"Good, keep thinking of that," Sherlock snuggled in next to John, quickly kissed him softly on the mouth and then scooted down just a bit so his head was near John's shoulder. His voice was a whisper, "Keep thinking of what you've thought of before, of what you want. I'll touch you now like I did before, it'll be feel a bit . . . more slick." Sherlock reached for John's cock and he began stroking John, as he did before, just like he said he would. "Does it feel good?"

John closed his eyes and nodded. "Mmm, yes," he murmured. 

"Okay," Sherlock said softly. He spread out the reach of his hand -- sliding it down to stroke John's inner thighs, then back to his cock, then down to hold his balls, then back to his cock. "The Sherlock and John in your head, make them do what we're doing now. The Sherlock in your head is touching John. The John in your head is lying down, feeling nice. Make that picture clear. Is it still good, what you're imagining?" As Sherlock whispered, his hand kept moving, adding John's perineum to the places it touched.

John bucked lightly and moaned. "Very good," he nodded, blinking his eyes open to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes met John's and he smiled at him. "I'm just going to use my finger first. Make the Sherlock in your head do that and if it's okay, tell me I can do that." He kept moving his hand around John, slowly and more deliberately.

John nodded almost immediately, bringing his hand up to hold Sherlock's arm.

"It's not going to hurt, John," Sherlock said. "It'll just feel . . . different and hopefully good. But if it doesn't, you tell me and I'll stop." His hand was now focused between John's thighs. He put pressure on John's perineum, letting his fingertips brush against John's hole before moving his index finger over it. Sherlock leaned over and kissed John's chest softly and as he did, he slowly pressed his finger in, slowly and steadily, moving it into John's body.

John let out a long moan, biting his lip as Sherlock pushed in. "Oh, Sherlock," he breathed.

Sherlock's was now pulsing into John, light movements back and forth so John could get used to the feel. Sherlock stretched to kiss John's mouth, but reached his neck which he nuzzled.

John was breathing heavily. He pictured in his head another finger sliding in, widening to stretch him and he whimpered softly. "More, please," he whispered.

Sherlock didn't say anything but slipped a second finger in and quickened his pace slightly. He could feel his own hips beginning to rock against John's body.

John tensed for one second before moaning and arching a bit, reaching out for Sherlock again. Sherlock's name slipped out on each breath, glad he didn't have to hold it in anymore.

John arching into his fingers was pushing Sherlock -- it was good that John was enjoying but it was also making Sherlock ache with need. He shifted his body again, to get better friction against John's hip. His fingers' rhythm matched the rhythm of his hips.

Sherlock's cock rubbing on his thigh was beautiful. He'd always pictured it in his mouth or his arse or in his hand, his mind grazing over anything it might have touched on its way to these places. And yet this was just as wonderful. 

Sherlock was trying to find a balance between helping John, being gentle with what was new to him, and the own growing desire. He shifted his body again, moving between John's legs. He used his knees to gently push John's legs further apart which made it easier for his fingers to push in a bit further. With his other hand, Sherlock began to stroke his own cock.

John pulled his legs up for Sherlock, opening his eyes again to watch him down there, see what it all looked like. His fingers moved easier now and John smiled at him.

Sherlock smiled at John, partly because he smiled at him and partly because he was glad John seemed less tentative. He slid his fingers from John and leaned closer to John's body. He reached for a condom and slid it on, slicking it before lining his cock with John's hole, just pressing near but not into. He looked up at John, who didn't say stop, and slowly eased it in to his body. God, it felt good.

John's eyes fluttered closed against his will, his eyes rolling back a bit. That felt amazing. He groaned softly as he was stretched and filled. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, crossing his ankles around his lower back.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John lips, hard. His body found a rhythm and he kept pushing in, further with each thrust. His breath was fast and hot in John's mouth.

John kissed him back just as hard, pulling him closer with his hands and his feet. It felt incredible. He moaned Sherlock's name over and over against his lips.

Hearing his name urged Sherlock. He was thrusting hard into John. "John," he managed to say, "I'm close . . . what do you want me to do?"

John's body rocked with the force of each thrust.  He reached one hand between them and stroked himself in time. "C-come . . . please don't stop . . . " he replied breathlessly.

Sherlock looked down at the two of them. John's hips rising with each thrust of Sherlock's, John's hand desperately pulling himself. God, it was beautiful. Sherlock felt a tightness and fullness and a release. He called John's name and stayed frozen for a moment in his arch, until he could breathe and move again. He dropped his head down onto John's shoulder, but kept one side of his body lifted. When he'd caught his breath, he reached down and put his hand on John's before stretching to cup John's balls.

John forced his eyes open so he could watch Sherlock orgasm, moaning and swearing at the sight of it. When Sherlock's hand joined his, he gasped and shuddered, coming before he could warn Sherlock. He called out for Sherlock as it rocked through him.

Sherlock slid his arms under John and pulled him to his chest. He squeezed his body, like he was merging with it. He whispered into John's ear, "I love you" and then he let his weight collapse into John. He was absolutely spent.

John took several deep breaths before answering. "I love you, too," he murmured, bringing a hand up to Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock sighed. He shifted his body, pulling out of John. He spoke as he did it, almost as a distraction since this could feel odd. "Is everything all right in the mind of Dr John Watson?"

John nodded. "Yes," he breathed as Sherlock pulled out. He shifted slowly so he could face Sherlock.

"I'll trust you," Sherlock said, "but don't forget -- we only got to this because you finally were honest. Tell me when there's something you need to tell me. Now," he swallowed. "I would like to sleep with you. May I? Where do you want to sleep?"

John nodded. He curled close to Sherlock and threw an arm around his waist. "Right here."

Sherlock leaned over and turned off the last lamp so the room was finally completely dark. He snuggled back into John. "I'm glad you came home. It feels better here. More right. Like it was. Like it should be."

John nodded against his chest. "I'm glad to be home, too," he said quietly. 

Sherlock looked up into the blackness. They would still have unpleasant things to deal with -- John would need to make things right with Mary -- but things would be good again for them, he knew it, because they were together. Like they should be.


End file.
